


alabaster sunrise

by AccioInvisibilityCloak



Category: Lovely Little Losers
Genre: Awkwardness, Bisexual Meg Winter, F/F, Fluff, Sharing a bathroom, Swearing, missing moment, the morning after TEA, who is hella closeted and just realizing it herself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccioInvisibilityCloak/pseuds/AccioInvisibilityCloak
Summary: Dragging herself into the flat after her first night in that damn tent, Meg is met with a realization. And a girl in a small yellow robe, who smiles like the sun.





	alabaster sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> What I wanted to happen the morning after the campers arrived at the Flat.
> 
> Consider this an apology for how long it's been since I've updated any of my fics. I found this old thing on my computer tonight and thought I'd throw it on here just for fun while I try to carve out a little time to get back to Vlogladies and TWITQWYN. You know, if anyone's still reading LLL fic! Thanks for your patience, enjoy! :)

      *******

           Meg wakes up practically at dawn the next day- or it feels like it, the sun just cresting over the tops of the Wellington hills and flooding the tent with light. How Beatrice manages to stay asleep through that plus the flurry of (fucking _annoying_ ) birdsong dancing on the morning air is anyone’s guess, but Meg supposes they did have a long day yesterday, so it’s probably understandable.

Slowly and quietly she rises to her knees, and crawls around the tent gathering shoes and socks, a form-fitting t-shirt and her tightest, cutest jeans. She’s already woken up feeling oddly tense, so she might as well take the confidence boost that only comes from knowing she looks damn good. To be fair, it’s a boost she gets most mornings, but it’s still appreciated.

Deciding to let Bea rest, Meg pulls the zipper on the tent, which of course makes the loudest possible ripping noise ever as it comes open. Bea sleeps on, though, and, wincing at the noise, Meg re-zips the tent and creeps up to the house, her bare feet squelching against the dewy grass and dirt of the garden. The _garden_. Honestly? Worst hospitality _ever_.

           It occurs to her that she never asked what time the stupid curfew ended in the mornings… No. Fuck it. She spent the entire day in a car in the rain yesterday, she’s earned a damn shower.

           Meg pushes open the unlocked back door- _are these losers serious?_ \- and soon finds herself standing in the kitchen.

Balth and Ben are in there, clearly trying to figure out some sort of breakfast for their guests. Balth yawns and patiently collects the ingredients from various cupboards and Fridris Elba, skirting around an overexcited Benedick when he (constantly) gets in the way.

Ben is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, so keyed up with nerves and guilt— and, no doubt, excitement to see Bea again, even though it’s only been one night— that he can’t possibly stand still as he mutters about “making it up to them” and “have to make this work”. Meg has never seen anyone move that much this early in the morning. She shakes her head in equal sympathy and exasperation. He’ll have his work cut out for him these next few weeks.

Ben jumps about a foot in the air when Meg clears her throat to announce her presence. He keeps glancing over Meg’s shoulder, trying to figure out if she’s alone, or if anyone’s with her. Like Beatrice, for example. _So obvious._

“She’s still asleep,” Meg says flatly, answering the question she knows Ben wants to ask, and he practically deflates in relief. Or disappointment. “Bathroom?”

           Balth wordlessly points down the hall, face flushed, not quite meeting Meg’s eye. She nods imperiously and stalks out of the kitchen before either of them can sheepishly ask how she slept. Meg won’t give them the satisfaction, and she’s way too tired and sore to forgive them just yet.

Meg comes up to a small, closed door, and raises her hand to knock-

And then the door swings open, and God, she’s so screwed.

           Because that’s when Freddie Kingston steps out of the bathroom, her red hair hanging loose, dark with water, a few damp strands clinging to her cheeks. She’s clad only in a small yellow robe, cinched at the waist with a matching terrycloth belt, emphasizing… well, everything. Her small breasts pushed up by the belt, and thin, pale legs more graceful in shape than they have any right to be. Meg wills herself to look away. And fails.

Freddie’s face is flushed from the heat of the shower, and a serene, thoughtless smile curves her lips, and Meg can feel a tight, giddy _swoop_ in her stomach at the sight- until, a split second later, Freddie’s smile drops into an “o” of horrified surprise.

“Hi! Uh, I, uh, I was just… nothing! Doing nothing… in my bathroom… How did you… I hope the garden wasn’t too… I’m sorry!” she blurts, and then she actually _runs_ full-tilt down the hall towards what Meg can only assume is her room. And then—

“No, uh, sorry, I’m this way,” Freddie calls, tearing back past Meg and disappearing into a room at the other end of the hall, the door slamming shut behind her.

           Meg doesn’t know whether to laugh or _kick_ herself for staring like that. She tosses her bundle of clothes onto the floor, shuts herself into the tiny bathroom and leans back heavily against the door.

Freddie’s smile when she stepped out of the bathroom, wet hair framing her face, her slick, freckled thighs flashing past as she ran down the hall, almost close enough to touch- _Oh my God_ , Meg thinks. _Oh my God. I’m fucked._

Freddie heard what she said last night. Hell, everyone heard her, announcing her sexuality like a game-show host or something, _look at me, believe me, I like guys and only guys. I_ have _to._

There’s just one problem with that, besides the way she accidentally insulted Balthazar, and she curses her damn terrible timing figuring it out.

Because the truth is, she’s much less sure of things than she let on. The truth is that Margaret Winter is definitely _not_ straight. Not even a little bit. And now she might just have a crush.

This is going to be a very long few weeks.

*******


End file.
